


Memories of Gold

by Of_Princes_and_Savages



Series: Beauty within the Beast 'verse [5]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angsty little something, Cursed Storybrooke, Dark One Belle, Ms. French's memories of Gold, Spinner Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-22 21:59:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6095332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Of_Princes_and_Savages/pseuds/Of_Princes_and_Savages
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ms. French was the most powerful woman in Storybrook, and everyone knew and feared her. But once there was someone that may have even loved her...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memories of Gold

Theirs was a town that never changed.

Not in a charming, New England village sort of way, sort of more like a boring little place that Disney heroines burst out into songs about their longing to escape from. While Lacey French was certainly a pretty little thing with her auburn curls, big blue eyes, and full rose-pink lips, she was not confused with a princess very often.

Ms. French was the monster lurking in the shadows of Storybrook.

Her reputation began when she first came to the US from Melbourne with her parents. She was shy and bookish, busy figuring out why people measured in "feet" instead of meters, called football games soccer, and drove on the wrong side of the road. But her new classmates say her reluctance to speak with them as her being "stuck-up", and her teachers thought her "impertinent" when she corrected one in English class. And when her mother was killed in a car crash little Lacey survived, she decided to embrace this reputation so people would leave her alone.

When she started wearing heels to school (she was short, dammit, she needed them!) and they started calling her a whore, Lacey wore short skirts and had the manners of a queen. They called her a bitch, so she developed an acidic wit that left most people wounded with a look. When the boys that ripped books out her hands in middle school realized what girls would good for in high school, Lacey quickly earned a reputation for being the girl a frigid bitch, or a slut, depending on the story-teller. It was no hardship whatsoever leaving Storybrook behind and never looking back...until her father died.

If her life were a Regency novel, she would say Moe French was something like Mr. Bennet. (By choice, that made her Elizabeth, thank you very much.) He loved his daughter very much, was a man of modest fortune, but never really paid her too much mind. When Lacey turned down her high-school boyfriend's proposal after graduation, Mr. French just shrugged it off. Greg Aston wasn't precisely a prize outside of a campus atmosphere anyway: Handsome, athletic, and dull as a brick. Really, a T-bone steak had more personality than Greg did.

Once the estate was settled, Lacey French found herself with a few grands, a large pink house, and an apartment building downtown.

This was the start of _Ms. French_.

* * *

Within a month, Ms. French purchased a few properties and made calculated investments. (Including some money in a computer company that she had a laugh at Regina's expense about later.) Within three months, Ms. French had turned a profit, and made her first loan. Within six months, Ms. French rivaled Xavier Reyes as the wealthiest member of Storybrook society, and repossessed Claude Little's shiny new Mustang when he couldn't repay his loan.

Within one, fast year, Reyes was nearly bankrupt and had to sell Ms. French half his property to cover his ass as he fled town. Between loans, property deeds, rental agreements, and the almighty dollar, Ms. French beat out Mayor Mills as the most powerful woman in Storybrook. Even the mayor-who everyone was afraid of,-was highly aware of this fact. But it didn't stop her from charging into the shop and complaining about something or other on many an occasion.

The way Ms. French was little and cute, wearing tall heels and fishnets below her short skirts, contrastingly conservative blouses and jackets, with a kittenish smile for everyone, made her terrifying to the townsfolk. She held all the strings in her dainty hands, sometimes behind her back where no one could see them. Whether it was jealousy over her success at barely 27, or fear at how she could throw them out on the streets with a word, everyone hated her, pretty face or not.

So her big pink house remained empty, full of dusty antiques, and her shop would hardly have any visitors if it weren't the only bookshop in town.

Storybrook didn't have a library. Well it did, but it had been closed for years, and the clock in the tower hadn't moved since the Frenches left Melbourne. _At least_. And the only other books for sale in town were the cheap magazines and cheaper romance novels for sale at the drugstore. Therefore, Old World Books and Antiques was an important piece of Storybrook.

There was, of course, one wall and a few shelves full of books taking up a little over a third of the shop to the right when you first came in. The rest was more of an antique store. Pawnshop really, since Ms. French would buy/pawn valuables in exchange for the cash people didn't _have_ to pay her with. But _'Old World Books'_ had been the name of the original business when Ms. French purchased it a year after returning to Storybrook, and she never changed it.

People might say it wasn't possible since she was rumored not to have one, but in reality, Ms. French didn't have the heart to change it.

* * *

In Ms. French's first year, around November, she was approached by a man she didn't recognize. After poking around town, people mostly said the same thing.

"The guy with the cane? Oh, that's Mr. Gold, I don't know his first name. He owns the bookstore on main street, Old World Books. Nice guy, kind of shy, doesn't get out much. I think he's struggling to make ends meet, see, his son is laid up in the hospital with cancer."

For all the Hallmark movies of small towns banding together around sick children of single parents, nobody was inclined to help Gold out. Perhaps that was why he approached Ms. French for a small loan.

He was a small man, not that much taller than she was, but he seemed smaller the way he stooped in a shy way that had nothing to do with him needing to walk with a cane. His hair was a sandy brown and long for a man, jaw-length or so, and he had deep golden brown eyes, and a weathered face that wasn't handsome, exactly, but rather...striking. His hawkish nose was crooked, his teeth more so, his face was all sharp angles, but he wasn't ugly either. Gold fidgeted a lot with his hands as he presented his case, stating upfront that as his was the only bookstore in Storybrook it made a notable profit, just not enough to support him, the bills, and his son's medical treatment all at once. Statistically, he should be able to pay her back within a year, a year and a half if her interest rates were higher than the bank.

Ms. French would've given him the loan right there for doing his homework.

Instead, she waited twenty-four hours (precisely) before agreeing, and was further impressed when Gold _read_ the contract. Mostly people just skimmed or jotted their signature down so they could grab their (her) money and run.

Unfortunately, Gold's son died not five months afterwards.

Ms. French noticed when she showed up on the first of the month to collect that Gold was getting thinner and thinner, the circles under his eyes darkening a little more each time. His shop was continuing at the old rate of business, but the strain leukemia treatments, futile or not, had put on his budget was taking it's toll. He'd been a recluse before, (not in the creepy Jefferson way, just sort of a homebody,) but now it would seem Gold literally couldn't afford much more than water, power, and rent each month.

And so Ms. French bought his business.

* * *

All of Storybrooke thought it was just Ms. French taking advantage of another's misfortune. She could tell from the frosty looks that the Lucas women especially disapproved, but they sure as hell didn't help him either. Sometimes Ms. French thought that the town always forgot Gold existed outside his shop until he held a door for them or asked a taller person for help reaching the shelves in the grocery store. (She was certainly guilty of that, if he didn't owe her money, she wouldn't pay him any mind at all.) But what they didn't know was that Ms. French didn't throw Gold out and leave him for the wolves.

Not that Storybrooke had wolves, mind, it was just a figure of speech.

Gold lived in the small apartment above the shop. When Ms. French overtook Old World Books, she hired him as an employee and let him live in the apartment for a small fee each month. He still didn't socialize very much, but he wasn't starving away either, and Ms. French couldn't blame him for wanting to keep a low profile in Storybrook. She saw having her own shop as giving people a place to come that wasn't her own home, and if she got an employee in the deal that knew, more or less, what he was doing, so much the better.

When people started offering family heirlooms and Dale Earnhardt collectible plates, Ms. French took a part of the shop and tacked the 'and Antiques' onto the Old World Books sign out front. Now she was something of a pawnbroker, in addition to a loan shark and landlord, and if she were Italian instead of Australian, Ms. French fancied they'd say she was in the Mafia.

Gold laughed at that. Well, not laugh so much as a sort of breathy chuckle, but in this fashion Gold did laugh at Ms. French's acidic wit and dark humor quite often.

Despite his underwhelming size, Gold was a talented man. He picked up the antique-dealing side of the business after a short time and put his clever hands to work restoring worn pieces back to life. He was very smart, knew his figures well, and enjoyed reading behind the counter. He once said that he liked to read because it passed the time and nobody would bother him that way. Ms. French could relate to that.

Gold was shy enough that it took months for him to look her in the eye, but never seemed to actually _fear_ her. If anything, Gold was the only one besides Madam Mayor and Jefferson who wasn't afraid of her reputation as a stone-cold businesswoman. He was actually concerned when she put a little more liquor than tea into her cup, so she made it a point to cut back.

Ms. French had never put much thought into why she drank. She liked the sting of whiskey in her creamy, sugary tea, she liked how it made the rapid spinning of her bright mind dim a bit when she didn't want to think. Especially when there were things creeping up over her shoulder she'd rather forget. It had started as a bit of a rebellion in her freshman year of high school when she took a swig of bourbon from her father's liquor cabinet, and Lacey had never quite shaken the habit. She wasn't alcoholic, and she went for months without so much as a passing thought to a sip, but sometimes she just needed to get sauced to the gills in her own home, y'know?

The only time Gold ever came to her house was one Christmas, when she'd decided it was a saucing-up day, and he somehow wound up asleep on the sofa beside her, with Jane Eyre half-finished on his lap, and her head pillowed on his shoulder.

* * *

The one time Ms. French had ever seen Gold himself three sheets to the wind was one unremarkable evening. Some time between late spring and summer, when the Maine air was still cold but not intolerable in the pretty sundress she'd been wearing.

It was seven-thirty, she knew because she'd had to check the time, and Gold was limping unsteadily back to his apartment. Mostly wondering why he was out late and hobbling worse than usual, she hurried across the street to catch up to him.

"Hey, hey, what are you doing out here this late?" she trotted up to his side just as Gold swayed dangerously.

Ms. French caught him by the arm unoccupied with his cane and held him upright, surprised at how heavy he was when he leaned on her. (Or maybe it was just because he was leaning _on_ her...) He smelled like paper and a musty scent the shop always carried, and more than a little bit of whiskey.

But to Gold's credit, he wasn't a handsy drunk. Exactly.

He did sort of wrap around her, nuzzling into her curls with a faint sigh while she was trying to keep them both upright. "H'lo Miss Frensh, er, _French_?"

"Hello Gold," she sighed, half-dragging him to the doorway of the shop. Thank god it was right there. "Isn't it my thing to be completely sloshed?"

"'M no' completely sloshed...jus'...just a wee bit, maybe..." his face scrunched up thoughtfully and it was all she could do not to laugh. "Ach, a'right, a lot bit..."

Lacey French did smile when he returned to nuzzling her like a cat after that. So he was neither a sad, nor angry drunk. He was an adorable drunk. Well wasn't that interesting? She tried the door only to find it locked. "Do you have keys or should I use mine?"

At least, that's what she was asking when his mouth covered hers at "you".

Gold did not kiss like a drunk. His free hand came up and cradled her cheek, fingertips ever-so-slightly brushing her hair, and his lips were gentle and warm. He tasted like alcohol, but also something...pleasant. Something sweet and soft. Him, Lacey would guess, letting her eyes flutter shut as her lower lip was gently tugged between his teeth and a spark shot up her spine.

Then she took him by the shoulders and gently pushed him back.

"You...you are very drunk, Mr. Gold," she smiled, but it even felt strained. "Wh-why don't you, um, you should get some rest. Good night."

Gold lurched forward and pressed the softest of kisses to her forehead. "S'okay now..." he purred, half-lidded eyes, softened by alcohol and tiredness and something that was utterly more terrifying than rage or lust.

Lacey left him propped up in the doorway and _ran_.

She waited a full day before stepping foot outside. Then she spent another day and a half carefully avoiding anywhere Gold might be. Mainly the shop, the grocers, drugstore, and Granny's. When Lacey plucked up her courage, she found the door was locked.

* * *

In a little town where nothing ever changed, one day, something did.

**_'HOME INVASION ENDS IN MURDER'_ **

The night before Lacey French was brave enough to leave her home and chance facing Mr. Gold, to see if the kiss was nothing more than a tipsy mistake or...or more, a burglar broke into Old World Books.

24 hours after he kissed her, Gold was gone.

He was buried by his son in the cemetery. Nobody knew what to put on the stone so they settled on a plain: R. Gold, with the birth and death year beneath it, beside his son. They overlooked how Ms. French footed the bill for the service to give her frosty looks. For once, Ms. French didn't feel inclined to wonder how they thought this was her fault. There was no point to it, really, they would always see her as a cold-hearted greedy little monster.

And Gold wasn't here anymore to smile and chuckle as she relayed the latest rumors about the dead bodies in her basement.

Gold wasn't there behind the counter when she reopened Old World Books and Antiques a week after his passing, and he wasn't sitting at his work table fiddling with a cuckoo clock that didn't chime right.

He wouldn't get around to reading Around the World in 80 Days like he said he was meaning to.

He wasn't there to tell her not to throw out his stupid chipped cup.

The cup was what broke Lacey when she walked into the back room and found it sitting perfectly on the table between the armchairs in the back, with the rest of the mismatched tea things, the pretty little white-and-blue cup with the big "chip" in the rim she always said would slice his lip if he weren't careful. He just smiled in that crooked way of his and said, "I promise to be very careful."

Well she didn't have to worry about a sliced lip now, did she?

Lacey French didn't realize just how lonely she'd be without Gold. Oh, sure, she'd never been very social and had a nonexistent friendship circle. But that saying about just because your alone doesn't mean you're lonely? That wasn't always true, turns out.

The years started ticking by. Lacey grew more and more distant in her Ms. French persona, a cool woman with a clever mind and thick skin that never showed hurt. She went back to drinking, but could never bear to drink heavily, too worried she'd hallucinate Gold and wake up alone. Karma would probably do that just to remind her how she let something infinitely precious slip through her fingers, because she ran, because she was afraid that...

Afraid that she was in love with the only person in the world that laughed at her weird jokes, that argued over Wuthering Heights with her, that- _That cared for her._

How goddamn stupid was that for the clever businesswoman?

* * *

The next time something changed, Henry Mills, the Mayor's adoptive son, had gone missing.

Ms. French endured Mayor Mills bursting into her shop and shouting at her like she could just wiggle her nose and make Henry reappear. How absurd. But, Regina did love her son, (Ms. French would know, she helped procure him from an adoption agency at the Mayor's very demanding request,) and was probably just worried, so Ms. French resisted further antagonizing Regina.

Barely.

Their Mayor was a bit of a bitch. Ms. French wished she was in the Mafia only once, and that was when she came out the back to find Regina practically pinning Gold against the shelves. Gold would never tell her what happened, exactly, but he was uncomfortable about it. But Regina didn't threaten him again or technically lay a hand on Gold, so there was nothing to be done. But when Gold died, Ms. French had this sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach that Regina's pet sheriff knew a lot more than he was letting on. Graham was a nice man, good at his job, but completely stuck in Mayor Mills' pocket.

For some reason, he was also stuck in her bed...

Ew.

Ms. French put this out of her mind as she rose from her armchair, cradling the chipped cup in her palms with the care one would show a fragile newborn. Instead of drinking, Ms. French had taken to holding the chipped cup, long since removed from the shop and brought to her home, infusing the smallest bit of light into her dark, empty house. When her dark mood hit, she held the cup, traced the chipped porcelain with her thumb, and sometimes, she pressed her lips against the rim and imagined it was as good as a kiss.

Sometimes it made her feel a little better.

Usually it made her cry.

And to prove how utterly stupid, selfish, and silly she was about the entire thing,-their one kiss, Gold's death, her regret, this cup,- _all of it_ , Lacey French had no reason to be upset. What right did she have to be upset and miss Gold when she never even asked him _what his name was?_

**Author's Note:**

> I'll properly delve into Storybrook at the end of my main story, but this ficlet here kept poking me with a sharp stick while I tried to sleep at night until I posted it.
> 
> So there!


End file.
